That time I moved to France and didn’t blog about it: preparing to move abroad during a pandemic

2020 will be the year that the world stopped for so many. But for me, it’s the year I got to live in France.

France was a lovely little séjour, despite those pesky aspects of living abroad. Every pain au chocolat  reminded me of being 16 and traveling around France with my grandfather, every new word learned was a small personal victory to untrain myself from Spanish while slowly making sense of street signs and school communications. In a year where no one traveled, a summer of exploring a new home base became our salve, the balm that soothed away all the scary stuff and ever-present threat of the virus.

Lyon France old town in a storm

We spent six months living in Écully, a wealthy village of 18,000 people just west of Lyon. The largest park was on the grounds of an old château (now home to Lyon’s premiere cooking school and the only hospitality school restaurant in France to hold a Michelin star), the village church and Liberté-Fraternité-Egalité-emblazoned mairie anchoring a small downtown that was once the carriage route to St-Etienne. It wasn’t Belle’s Alsace but it was pretty damn cute, the homes named for flowers, doors overgrown with lilacs and ivy and random châteaus hidden behind apartment complexes.

I didn’t blog. The attempt to jot down a vignette or two every week suddenly seemed a momentous task after a day trying to fumble through French and not get lost and perfect a quiche lorraine. I truthfully didn’t want to find the time to do it. And now, half a year since we returned to Spain, I am ready to talk about it. And, truthfully, I don’t want to forget.

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I have been a Francophile since I was a kid. Maybe it was growing up reading Madeline, or my mother’s obsession with French silk. I begged her to let me learn French at a fancy sleepaway camp in Minnesota, something I’d read about in a magazine. She scoffed that I could go to the park district camp and wade in a creek instead of drowning myself in baguettes.

By the time I was 13, she signed the permission form to let me start language classes – Spanish. I got the last laugh when I married a Spaniard and Nancy lost me to the mother continent.

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Lyon. While Paris has long swooned me, I fell deeply in love with Lyon. The city is home to the second largest urban area in France, crowned by the Monts d’Or and framed by the confluence of the Rhône and Saône rivers.  Les gones – a nickname given to the lyonnaises – are comme si-comme ça about all things Parisian, crown themselves as the gastronomic capital of France and have witnessed some of France’s most emblematic events. The Romans. The Gauls. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. The Lumière brothers. Jean Moulin. Paul Bocuse.

Mon dieu, I was in love with this place before even looking for flights, much less asking permission to work from another country. I would wind my way through the streets of the Croix-Rousse like the old canuts, dine in every restaurant Bourdain had stopped in on Parts Unknown and pick up my produce and cheeses that reeked of grass and the countryside at the Saturday morning market. I had dreamed of living in France since kids were learning French on tapes, and it was finally happening. Quelle aventure, la France!

March 2020

As the weather warmed, so did my urge to get planning. When I first moved to Spain, fresh out of college, I literally left just about everything to chance. I had spent a few days in Seville and knew I liked it, but the prospect of living there didn’t register when I was subsiding off of gazpacho in the July heat as a study abroad student.

We interviewed with a relocation company that specialized in expats one afternoon. As the Novio’s job as a civil servant got a delightful smirk, hearing I was American and hadn’t yet mentioned the prospect of moving was troublesome to her. Add in two kids who needed schooling and a budget during a housing crisis, and she declined to work with us. I was aghast: someone was refusing our euros?

Little did I know just how much I would hear the word non when we eventually got to France that summer.

Well, then the rest of March 2020 happened, and I promptly cancelled my trip to the U.S. that summer and planned on an été français.

April – May

One silver lining of the pandemic is that housing options suddenly opened up, meaning that the offerings were suddenly ours for the picking. We weighed commute against price against outdoor space (post-pandemic trauma is real) and found a suitable place in Écully. I loved its proximity to the city of Lyon and the village’s town center; my husband loved that it was 1.5 km from the autoroute and only 20 minutes to his new headquarters.

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After we’d booked our house, schooling for Millán suddenly got solved, too. I had long heard the praises of the public education system in France, but that a spot at a crèche was about as difficult as getting one at an elite preschool in New York City. I took to Facebook as any old millennium would and immediately found a Facebook group called Españoles en Lyon.

Un tal Fulanito messaged me, un voisin d’Écully by way of Huesca, and he sent me the inscription forms, detailed information about timetables and the names of a few good places to check in town. On a whim,  I called one, not even realizing that there was a crèche a lot closer to our new digs.

“Âlo?”

I tried, in French, to ask about inscriptions. She told me someone would call back (I think), and he did (thank goodness), but it wasn’t until he wrote me an email that I thought to ask if he spoke Spanish or English. François (“me llama Ud. Paco, s’il vous plaît!“) was half Spanish, with an andalusian surname.

As it turned out, the woman who appealed to the mayor, Mme. Parfait, had called that morning to ask how many spaces François would need, and if I could just send the baby’s birth certificate and our proof of housing, he would ask for a five-day spot for Millán.

This.could.not.be.more.perfect.

Ville d'Écully

It was all falling into place. Enrique’s school was LITERALLY across the street, and Millán had somehow gotten a spot (COVID, you fickle bitch). We had a home, my Spanish to French translations had arrived, and I could finally start dreaming about ma via française.

I bought tickets for July 2, direct to Lyon from Seville.

June

As Seville began to awaken and we could finally leave our homes, that travel-panic mode kicked in. I still hadn’t learned any French and, despite having everything seemingly under control, I’d never been more wound up. The pandemic definitely made my anxiety shine hot and bright, and my family was often on the receiving end of grunts and shouts. We made tentative plans to come back in late October, when Enrique would have a school break, so I dutifully packed our bags for the summer and early fall, chose a few toys and books and helped the Novio pack the car.

He arrived to Écully on June 23, found the nearest supermarket, his way to work and a few other Spanish families. I moved in with his parents, juggling the kids and work while tip-toeing around my father-in-law’s schedule. As I was sending out an email invitation to 40,000 juniors in high school, I received an email from Transavia that my flight had been cancelled.

I rebooked on Air France for the same day, via de Gaulle, forwarding my mother-in-law the tickets to print.

Oye, niña: Millán’s name is spelled incorrectly, she announced as she passed them to me.

I was aghast. HOW could this be happening? She shooed the kids away while I called Air France. And waited. And waited. In a post-COVID world, there were so few operators that I was on hold for hours before the agent told me I’d have to call Air France in France. Cue more hours on the phone, a credit card that had reached its limit, my American card assuming the purchase was fraudulent and the tickets on July 2 selling out. I was nervous that borders would close just as soon as they’d opened up, so I hastily booked us onto the July 4th flight via Paris. It was three times as much as I’d paid on Transavia originally, and my privilege was on full display right then and there. I could afford to book and rebook – what would it be like fleeing for our lives when I was crying over an extra two days in Spain?

July

We made it to July 4th. As my mother-in-law helped me wheel the bag to the check-in counter at the Seville airport, I felt a sense of relief that we were almost there, that my gumption (or truly just my stubbornness) had got us this far. Millán slept the whole flight to Paris, waking up as we touched down. The airport terminal was practically a ghost town, but that didn’t stop my kids from rolling around on the ground, sticking their suckers on every surface and pulling their masks down.

Let me remind you that the early summer months was a very small breath of air, like breaking to the surface after being underwater. There is the awareness that the virus is still circulating freely but no one has really, fully let down their guard.

Breathe, Cat. You will be fine.

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Only NO ONE in France was wearing a mask when we arrived. The enormous Carrefour in Grand Ouest didn’t enforce them until later in the month when cases began to climb. Vieux Lyon, a UNESCO World Heritage site and huge tourist draw, merely suggested wearing them indoors. My family were the only weirdos masking up unless we were eating because we didn’t want to be assholes (and we didn’t know enough French to survive a hospital setting – despite everyone needing a hospital but me during our stay).

But WE WERE IN FRANCE.

I got to exploring the village in our first days, not wanting to spoil Lyon by going without the Novio. We found all of the bakeries, slowly working from one end of the display case to the other, with me clumsily ordering coffee. The betting house had cheap beers, so we stopped there after the park for Super Bocks and a sirop, the French version of a soft drink, for the kids. I even got a loyalty card at Picard for frozen foods.

Le (merde de la CAF)

One morning, we marched over to the town hall and asked to speak to the woman in charge of school assignments. She was impressed that I had gotten my documents translated to French and – voilà, Madame – gave me the cell phone number of his Spanish-speaking teacher, who wrote me an email that same afternoon.

I called François at crèche and asked about the adaptation process for Millán and how to complete his registration. Do you have the CAF? he probed, telling me that he could not finalize the process nor tell us how much we would owe for care until he did.

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And thus began the two-month odyssey into getting Millán registered for daycare. The CAF, or the caisse des allocations familiales, is the social services body that serves families and young people, often giving rebates according to salary. When creating an account online to request our family allowance, I realized I’d need a French phone number. That was easy. I’d also need a French bank account. Every bank we tried told us no – either because of U.S. tax laws, or because I’d tried to get a bank account without my husband’s signature (who could guess that the patriarchy in France was more dominant than in Spain?). One flat out refused because he said our short stay was not worth his time. The Novio was frustrated by having to take time off of work, and the CAF refused our Spanish bank number.

There was a bright spot: when we stopped by LCL, a woman heard us discussing the situation in Spanish. Odiel, a widow who had lived in Écully her whole life, offered to accompany us to other banks as a translator and quickly became a friend.

By the end of July, we had finally succeeded in opening a compte nickel, which is an account that is typically reserved for refugees before they are fully established. We kept the minimum amount – 20€ – in the account and paid Enrique’s school cantine through school intranet.

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Bank account and French number in hand, I applied for the CAF number online and went to Social Services to request help. After 10 minutes of bank and forth and calling another social services office, I was told to stop the following morning for a doctor’s appointment and to speak to the official in charge of the CAF in town. We were getting somewhere! I treated myself and the kids to macarons as the church bells rang. Because it was noon. And, just like Spain, everything closed in the middle of the afternoon.

The following morning, I showed up at the Maison de la Metropole, a trailer in the middle of a dirt lot. We saw a doctor, who spoke enough English to give my kids a clean bill of health and a few hints about the CAF, and then said they’d be closed for the entire month of August. Damn, Europe.

August

When I wasn’t dealing with bureaucrazy, Millán turned a year old and began walking, we spent a lot of time on our terrace and in the yard with the neighbors and finally exploring the city’s museums, parks and bakeries.

It could have been easy to mourn the loss of our summer in the U.S., but every weekend brought the opportunity to see how much we could cram into 48 hours. The hilltop Dauphinais castle at Allymés, followed by a walk around Pérouges. Down to Grenoble and to Vienne. We even made it to Geneva on our wedding anniversary and to the Black Forest to celebrate our birthdays. The weekdays meant working while Millán napped and spending the afternoons somewhere – often a park, a château or a park next to a château.

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Enrique woke up most mornings asking, “Where are we going today, Mommy?” My intrepid three-year-old definitely takes after his mother.

I would occasionally meet other families at the park who spoke English, or who I could cobble together our basic story. But my very Spanish children couldn’t muster getting out of the house before noon, which meant that the parks were often for us while families had their midday meal.

September

In late August, I took Millán to the adaptation days for the crèche. It was lovely to meet François, who was gracious but told me it was impossible to do anything without the CAF because the computer system wouldn’t let him input information.

In the meantime, I looked for childcare options for Millán. Getting an assmat, or an assitante maternelle, was also impossible without the CAF, and the micro crèche in town was 800€ for five days, part-time (we pay 280€ for full-time in Seville). I took to Facebook again, where we found a lovely nanny who had lived in Chicago before coming to Europe, and she watched the kids each Wednesday and on school holidays. Oh, yes – Enrique had no school on Wednesdays, so I decided to keep Millán home, too. My kids adored Natalia, and as Millán napped, we got to know one another over tea.

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Taking Enrique to his new classroom on September 1 was a slow, steady build up to a taste of freedom. For nearly six months, they’d been my little shadows. It was hard to work, to exercise, to sleep with the constant interruptions of kids. But it was also bittersweet after six months of new adventures, new milestones and time to grow as a family unit.

François called shortly after the start of the term and told me that we’d been given a provisional CAF number but had to present a number of documents. So, it was back to Maison de la Metropole, but I asked the Novio to come with one of his French coworkers for assistance. They took our documents, bank statements, copies of our family book and maybe two years off our lives due to stress, but we were finally given a provisional CAF number that was set to expire on December 31.

The next step was to petition for the spot to the mayor, who would have to cover any extra expenses if we weren’t able to pay for the schooling. At the end of September, I had both boys in school four days a week. Formidable, non?

October

Some time in mid-October, I suddenly felt adapted. I didn’t rely on my GPS or I didn’t fumble over my words at daycare to tell them when Millán had woken up (only to discover, a month later, that I had reversed word order). The library and children’s center recognized my children as les americains. I learned that the 69 on the license plates corresponded to the metropolitan district. Auverge-Rhône-Alpes shrunk to the Rhône shrunk to the le Metropole to le Grand Ouest and to Écully. Our world seemed small yet expansive simply because it was different.

We’d been to the big draws, and I jotted down small museums and villages to visit in our second half. There were wine harvests and film fests, and we’d hardly ventured to what Lyon offered further away from the Presqu’île.

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“They’ll never shut our museums or cinemas, pas les choses culturelles,” they whispered. Enrique was home on a Tuesday, thanks to the ever-present vacances in the French school system. We said goodbye to his sitter and I stuffed him quickly into the car, got some McDo and found a spot to park in Vieux Lyon. Another lockdown was imminent so I wanted to take him to see one more Guignol. A distant relative of Punch & Judy, Monsieur Guignol is the beloved lyonnais puppet whose shows were social commentary on the buttoned-up Catholic society in the early 20th Century. We loved him. The theatre was packed, and Enrique sat on a shallow, overturned bucket as Guignol outwitted the evil proprietor of Club Sandwich to get the francs that he owed Mama Swing, who didn’t even have money for a hotel and was forced to sleep out in the cold.

We ended the outing with ice cream from René Nardonne next to a slate grey river. It was the last time we’d be able to eat at a restaurant, but we were told one month until freedom and culture and normal life. You know, to save Christmas.

November

I held out hope that my December holidays could be cashed in on a museum day and eating somewhere on my ever-longer list. I had to laugh: my Spanish cellphone company informed me I’d start paying roaming on November 3, so I only used WIFI while at home (and I was ALWAYS home). We stopped spending money on entertainment, instead using our allotted one hour out of the house, time-stamped attestation in hand, to see how much of our one kilometer perimeter we could trace.

Life became mundane – gads! boring! – while in France. But we were in FRANCE. Where only the self-proclaimed gastronomic capital could have outrageous prices on every piece of produce but cabbage and fish that tasted like freezer burn at a fine dining restaurant. It rained every day and eventually the neighbor’s geese stopped honking.

December

I called Menchu on Tuesday afternoon to see if she was free. The Confluence mall, with its cheap parking and endless dining options, was our halfway point, a merging of both our rivers and our families and our shared experience. “Jo, muero para tomar un café” Starbucks and a long stroll to the car became a simple taste of freedom and we joked about how Madrid was wide open to the French, but we couldn’t venture further than 15 kilometers from our homes.

Christmas tree at l´Hotel de Ville

The month went by quickly. Packing, purging, eating through whatever was in our freezer. We planned for a Christmas with Ángel, Menchu and their children but prepared for a feast at home. The pandemic brought out the resourcefulness in me: we made wreaths out of paper plates, a nativity from a 12-pack box of Kronenburg. My car battery died, and I could somehow find a place to get it replaced after buying Christmas presents at Carrefour. The days ticked down, and it made me sad to think of the experience we had lost by moving abroad during a pandemic. For my husband, it was six months of torture. For me, it was six months of reminding myself how exciting everyday life can be.

C’est fini

As we pulled away from Chemin du Chancilier shortly before the end of 2020, I bouncily told my eldest to wave goodbye to his school out the window. Au revoir, Stèphane! Au revoir, petite section! He asked for the tablet as I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes. Down we went on the A-6, crossing the Presqu’île on a needle-thin bridge before turning south on the A-7, the gastronomic motorway between Paris and Marseille. Out past the refineries, the shabby outskirts, snaking down the Rhône towards the Mediterranean.

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I left Lyon with a heavy heart. Maybe it’s because Millán began walking here, and Enrique got his first stitches as I held his hand and looked away (and onto the Château d’Annecy, what!?!?!?). Maybe because it was my chance to live in a country that has forever captured my heart, even if the chance to really do it right was muffled by a global pandemic (can we say it again? Fuck COVID). Maybe because I need some challenge on a more regular basis.

When you meet people and know that your connection to them is fleeting, every minute seems important. François. Odiel. Julie. Menchu. Natalia. I have been overwhelmed with the generosity and warmth of the few people we have met and even wrote the mayor a thank you note to express my gratitude that he saved Millán that spot at the crèche.

Into 2021

What I may have liked best about those six months in France was how simple our days seemed. Even in the ho-hum of daily life, even when we were shuttered away, once more, in our homes, I couldn’t shake the tingly magical feeling. That we’d weathered a global pandemic, only to find ourselves more willing to try something new, to explore. And there were no extra distractions: no doctors appointments or social engagements, not always running off to see something and snap a few pictures. We had the space to grow together as a family over meals, trying to make sense of French pop songs and their odd music videos (Je te voie, Julièn Doré) or testing out all the snacks at the gas station as we visited little villages or explored further afield. I find myself craving the butter and cheese crackers that cost more than a 12-packs of cans of 1664 beer as I type.

There are little things about Lyon that have stayed with us: Millán’s favorite stuffed animal is called his beloved doudou, and Enrique’s birthday cake was a whimsical take on Guignol. We tend towards camembert when we can find it. I bought a six-pack of 1664 just because (I definitely didn’t get it for the taste) and work to French pop.

“You know we’ve been home for six months already.” The Novio is right, anything post-pandemic lockdown seems to have passed at warp speed since.

St Jean church Lyon

Home is where we are truly anchored. What we brought to France fit into my car, underneath kid feet or jammed into the crevices between seats. I brought a cheap bottle of Beaujolais jeune in Oignt on our third and final trip to that beautiful little village, and maybe we will drink it some day and reminisce about that time were were foules enough to move to a foreign country during a pandemic.

Yes, it was disappointing in many ways. I didn’t get the full experience I had been dreaming about since reading about the girl who lived in an old house in Paris, covered in vines. The French I learned was by way of a little green owl. The boys missed swim class and play dates and even catching a last guignol show.

Je ne sais pas, I still can’t put my finger on what France was. As the days fade into summer, as we plan for the long, hot months and the upcoming school year, I pine for it. Life seemed simple, simply because we had one another and a good rind of cheese and the balmy summer nights watching the sun set over the old farmhouse next door.

Am I vraiment folle for moving abroad during a pandemic? What other topics should I cover about Lyon or France?

Paris’s Jardin du Luxembourg and my musings on expat life

In a little old house that was covered with vines,
lived 12 little girls in two straight lines.

For as long as I can remember, I have been borderline obsessed with Paris. I blame my mom, who bought me Madeline books. Remember how the book started?

My house was neither old nor plant-covered. But I had a lamp shaped like the Eiffel Tower and black and white postcards of Paris in the 30s that I garnered at a rummage sale tacked to my bulletin board.
Eiffel Tower Paris

Growing up in the suburbs of a major city, my jaunts into Chicago seemed to go along with the soundtrack of a coming-of-age movie from the 80s: I wanted to live and breath the big city lights, maybe work for a glossy and have a string of good-looking boyfriends. Which is the plot to essentially every movie that came out when I was a teen.

When I asked my mom to let me study French in middle school, she told me Spanish would be far more useful in a future career. At 13, I didn’t know that learning another language would allow me to pivot from magazine editor to ESL teacher. Not as glamorous as I’d hoped, of course, but everyone starts somewhere.

“We breathe in our first language, and swim in our second.”

Ever since I read Adam Gopnick’s account of expatriated life in the French capital, “Paris to the Moon,” I was resolute that I’d live abroad at some point in my life. I didn’t particularly love the book – required reading for one of my college courses about Parisian architecture – but I did love what it represented: freedom, adventure and a healthy dose of red tape.

Autumn in Paris

My class was meant to be a study in Eiffel and Hausmann. Instead, it was two Midwesterners waxing poetic about the bistros and brasseries just steps away from the Sorbonne. Iowa City is 4,291 miles away from Paris, but that Spring 2005 class somehow seemed to push me towards Europe and towards a city that held so many of my teenaged dreams.

I’d had one of those soul-restoring deep sleeps and woke up early on the first truly autumnal Sundays in Paris. My work trips always fall on a Sunday – a godsend for catching Parisians at play but nearly impossible for eating anything decent. I put on a Mango dress that passed as a raggedy version of Chanel and some lipstick and took the RER down to Luxembourg.

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Gopnick often wrote about taking his young son to the Luxembourg gardens – in fact, it’s on the cover of the original 2000 book, a collection of essays he wrote for the New Yorker. I’ve criss-crossed Paris on half a dozen occasions, but usually as the tote-along on a first timer’s foray into Paris, or as a 24-hour stopover punctuating a long work trip. I purposely booked the last Eurostars train out of London so that I could take advantage of a late September morning and visit the park.

Armed with a baguette (fine, it was left over from my London trip and a little soggy) and a jacket draped over my arm, I found the eastern gate of the gardens, constructed in the 17th Century by Marie de Midici. It was just before noon and the Eiffel tower peeked over golden-tipped leaves, reflected in the small, circular pool. My college professors has spoken about the Palace du Luxembourg – its history, its current use in the French senate – but I was contented to have it as a backdrop to the children sailing model boats, their flags and colors somewhat tattered, on the pool.

Cat Gaa in Paris

Olive green metal chairs ring the basin, some reclining towards the sky. I dragged a free sear on the southwest side of the park towards the sun and unwrapped my sandwich. A man crumbled the end of his baguette and fed it to a pigeon while a mother scolded her child in French for nearly climbing into the pool after the stick he was using to guide the boat drifted away from his fingertips. Chatter came from all around me in about half a dozen languages. I’ve always said said markets and plazas were the best place to catch Spaniards wrapped up in everyday life; in Paris, it’s Luxembourg.

Somehow, everything and everyone is picturesque and chic and unsoiled here.

Hell, even my soggy baguette tasted magical because I was eating it in Paris.

“This can shake you up, this business of things almost but not quite being the same. 
A pharmacy is not quite a drugstore; a brasserie is not quite a coffee shop; 
a lunch is not quite a lunch.” 

As a perennial American abroad, I now see my own adulthood reflected in Gopnick’s telling of the mundane – as well as the truly fantastic – parts of expat life. I didn’t know it at the time, but the cadence of my life in Spain would be similar: everything and nothing is the same as back home.

Later that afternoon, post-recruitment event and a few cheeky beers with colleagues, I returned on foot to the garden. Nestled between the 5eme and 6eme arrondisments, I had two choices: using Luxembourg as my anchor, I could follow a foot map along the highlights of the district, or wander around. My professors had laid out all of the 5ème for me, so I veered into the 6ème.

Parisian bistros

Snaking down the Rue du Condé that flanks the Odéon theatre towards the Sorbonne, some of the major highlights the professors talked about in class were suddenly right in front of me. Every alleyway offered me a glimpse into the allure of Paris. Long-legged university students pulled their jackets tighter as they glided down the steps of the Sorbonne’s medical school. It all seemed so Truman Show – until the cost of a beer and the snobbery when I asked to pay with a card brought this Midwesterner right back.

In Paris we have a beautiful existence but not a full life, 
and in New York we have a full life but an unbeautiful existence.

Gopnick’s wife says, upon deciding to return home, that “In Paris we have a beautiful existence but not a full life, and in New York we have a full life but an unbeautiful existence.” I find my experience to be the contrary: my life feels fuller and far more rosy in Spain.

Since that class, ARTH 3020: Paris and the Art of Urban Life, the Parisian joie de vivre and, alas, European life and the string of attractive (foreign) boyfriends has alluded me. My life in Spain is often chaotic and has a noticeable lack of afternoons whiled away at the brasserie down the block. But the small victories and the sobremesa and the afternoons in a complete trance over how I ended up here are fuel. They’re what has kept me in Spain.

Jardin du Luxembourg at dusk

I’m sure that, had I chosen Paris over Seville, I’d be fighting the urge to look at my phone while my child played with a model boat at Luxembourg. And that I’d have stepped in something or spilled on myself or still gotten a zit at an inopportune moment.

Every time I return to my childhood bedroom, I switch on the gaudy Eiffel Tower lamp and drag a finger along the dozen or so books that I haven’t given away. Paris to the Moon is one of them, standing between the Michelin Le Guide Vert that was its class companion and a well-worn copy of a Let’s Go Europe book, published in the same year as the summer I spent in Spain. In an age where mobile phones dictate where we travel and what we share – and even prevent us from losing ourselves in a city – the book is a tangible reminder of the life I chose in Spain.

“There are two kinds of travelers. 
There is the kind who goes to see what there is to see, and the kind who has 
an image in his head and goes out to accomplish it. 
The first visitor has an easier time, but I think the second visitor sees more.”

If you’re my kind of traveler, you enjoy meandering around and taking it all in rather than ticking sites off of a list. I’ve been to Paris half a dozen times and have done all of the big draws, so this time I wanted to wander through a new arrondisment on a free evening I had in the French capital.

Eiffel tower at night

I used the GPS MyCity app for points of interest around the 5ème and 6ème during my afternoon off in Paris – you can easily download sightseeing or local haunts maps and use them offline in more than 1000 cities worldwide.

Comment below for your chance to win a year’s subscription to GPSMyCity and tell me a city you love to get lost in or hope to soon!

Disclosure: I was not paid for this post but GPSMyCity kindly offered me a one-year Premium Pass, which I’ll also us in Vienna next week. All opinions are my own.

How to stay in Spain legally as an American and other frequently asked questions to a US expat in Spain

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I have lived in Spain for eleven years – we are now in the double digits. The only things I’ve stuck to for longer have been gymnastics (12 years) and driving a car (17 years). As September comes and goes each year, the nostalgia kicks in as I remember lugging two overstuffed suitcases from Chicago to Madrid to Granada to Triana. What a long, strange, tapa-filled journey it’s been.

As I approached my ten year Spaniversary, I had planned to write a tongue-in-cheek look at some of the things that make me scratch my head about Spain, weaving in the acclamation process that took a good, darn year. But, parenthood and a busy work schedule meant that that post is still in drafts (I’ll get there by my 20th Spaniversary, promise).

Despite slagging blog and social media activity, I somehow still have page views, followers of my ho-hum #momlife and emails from readers and people who find me organically through Google. Don’t let the out of office message fool you – I love reading them and I appreciate them.

Contemplating a hike in Cazalla de la Sierra. Photo credit: Monica Wolyneic.

I always think, “I can should turn this question into a blog post.” But rather than eleven separate posts, I did a non-scientific study of what you guys emailed and Facebook messaged me about to celebrate 11 years of Spanish red tape and all that comes with it, and I’ve honed down my long-winded emails so that you’re not overwhelmed with word count or information.

Have more questions? Throw ’em in the comments!

How can I legally stay in Spain as an American?

Apart from emails about my favorite places to eat in Seville, I get several emails each week about how to work in Spain and how to legally stay in Spain. Many of you are language assistants or veterans of study abroad in Spain.

I get it. Spain got under my skin, too.

When I was considering making Spain a long-term thing, I looked into just about everything.

Guess what y’all: you have it way easier than I did in 2010.

playa de las catedrales galicia beach

I knew about the loopholes for getting an Irish passport (my dad was not listed on the Foreign Birth Registry, so that was out). There was a difficult-to-attain freelancer visa that I would have had to hustle to get – and I was still on blogger.com. I could get married, but that seemed like an awkward conversation to a Spanish boyfriend who proudly proclaimed he’d never get married (about that…).

I found out that I essentially had three options, apart from the whole ring thing: I could try to find a contract and let my card lapse to modify my status from irregular to a one-year work and residency permit, known as arraigo social; I could start working for a company under the table and rat them out under arraigo laboral, or I could continue on a student visa, obtained through a Master’s program I’d been admitted to, and start earning years towards residency as a civil partner. Modificación and cuenta propia were not buzzwords, nor were they paths to residency in Spain at that time.

So, I set out to try and find a job contract. I spend hours crafting cover letters, hand writing addresses of schools and language academies and licking stamps. Every 10 or 12, I’d reward myself with Arrested Development. I waited for the job offers to roll in but… they did not. In Spain, working legally is a bit of a catch-22: you need a work permit to get a job, and you need a job to get a work permit.

Very Spainful to spend a summer stressing out over staying legal, making money and not having to crawl back to America, tail between your legs.

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Dreaming of being legal in Spain

In all fairness, I was up against a lot: the arraigo social was a long-shot because teaching contracts tend to be only for nine-ten months. I’d also been out of the Schengen Zone for longer than the allotted time (120 days in three years) and had passport stamps to prove it. I couldn’t denunciar the Spanish government for legally employing me, either. Feeling overwhelmed and in desperate need of 20 minutes in an air-conditioned office, I headed to the U.S. Consulate in Seville (which, by the way, does not do residency or visa consultations for Americans in Spain), and the then-consular agent told me to renew my student visa como fuera.

Thankfully, I’d applied to do a Master’s in Spanish and had an acceptance letter and enrollment certificate. I deferred my enrollment for financial hardship but it had bought me a bit of time to not let my residency card lapse. I’d discover later that you can apply for a TIE card renewal up to 90 days after its expiration, but I was in survival mode (and I seriously doubt that Exteriores even had a website at that time).

paperwork

If my house ever catches fire, my mountains of extrajería paperwork means that it will burn fast.

An overnight bus trip later, I stood in line at the Foreigner’s Office in Madrid, only to be told I’d need an appointment. I plead my case, blaming it on the university taking its sweet time to send my documents and the lack of available appointments, and they told me to come back that following Friday. Back to Seville on the six hour overnight bus I went, returning three days later and having registered my padrón certificate with my brother-in-law.

When it was my turn at the eleventh hour, literally at 4pm the day before my residency card expired, I lied through my teeth and said I was going to begin a master’s program. I remember her making some snide remark about sevillanos. As soon as I had the stamp on my EX-00, I long-distance dialed my mom in the US and told her she could transfer all the money, used as proof of financial solvency for my renewal, back out of my bank account.

As all of this was happening, I attended an American Women’s Club tapas welcome party for new members, as I was considering joining anyway. The woman I sat next to casually mentioned something called pareja de hecho. Doing this would make me the de facto executor of the Novio’s will, and would make him my de-facto owner and keeper. I wasn’t cool with that explanation from the funcionario, but I rolled with it because it gave me residency permission, and I could work legally for 20 hours on my student visa.

walking tours in Spain

Spanish bureaucracy is no cake walk

And so began the wild goose paperwork chase around Andalucía (including a brief pit stop in Fuengirola, Málaga).

You know the rest – a change in the stable partner laws while our paperwork was processing allowed me to work legally and build years towards permanent residency. But apart from that, it changed my mindset from taking Spain and my life here on a year-by-year basis, and it was a clear sign from the Novio that we were in this for more than just the language goof ups and someone to have a cheeky midday beer with.

So what is pareja de hecho?

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Pareja de hecho meant no long distance relationship for the Novio and me.

The closest equivalent to pareja de hecho in the US would be a civil union; in fact, people seeking fiancé visas to the United States usually have undergone the PdH process. Simply put, you have nearly all of the benefits of being married, but without the financial implications (in Spain, anyhow) or the ring.

Pareja de hecho allows the non-EU partner to work and reside legally in Spain, have access to state healthcare and move about the EU without a passport. It’s assumed that your partner will not be your “keeper” but proving financial solvency is an element when you later apply for your residency card, and your finances will stay separate unless you choose otherwise.

Pareja de hecho is also called pareja estable or uniones de hecho.

I want to do pareja de hecho. How can I apply for pareja de hecho / pareja estable?

Want to legalize your love? Pareja de hecho is one way to stay in Spain legally as a non-EU citizen.

But ojo: paperwork and eligibility for pareja de hecho differs from one autonomous community to another. Some, like Andalucía or Navarra, will allow the non-EU partner to be on a student visa or even apply with just a passport, whereas Castilla y León will not. Galicia wins the living-in-sin game, as interested parties must have lived together on a registered padrón municipal for two years or more. Both sets of islands will only let Spanish citizens, and not other Europeans, apply.

a-veces-la-locura-spanish-words

Sometimes, crazy is the only way to survive (in Spain)

To qualify, both members of the party generally have to be 18 or older, not related and able to enter into a legal partnership on your own free will. From there, requirements vary by the community – and sometimes even the province – in which you’re applying. Your local government will have resources about documentation and application process. And don’t forget that once you have your certificate in hand, you’ll still have to apply for your shiny new residency card (tarjeta comunitaria)!

In hindsight, pareja de hecho was probably the easiest bureaucratic matter I’ve had to deal with in Spain – I’m serious. And if you don’t believe me, I co-wrote an eBook about it (use LEGALLOVE5 for a 5€ discount in COMO’s online shop!)!

All’s fair in love and bureaucracy, right?

How did you get into teaching abroad? Do I need to have a TEFL or CELTA to teach in Spain?

I proudly marched off the plane in July 2005 after a summer abroad and announced I’d be moving back to Europe after graduation. My parents even encouraged me to do a year or two abroad.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Senior year, after the obligatory flippy cup game and textbook buying, I visited the Office of Study Abroad on my campus to ask how to move abroad after graduation; one of the peer mentors told me about the Spanish government’s North American Language and Culture Assistant program, which would allow me to teach 12 hours a week in a public school in exchange for 631,06€ a month, private healthcare and a student visa. I was offered a position in Andalucía two weeks before graduation.

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I needed a TEFL certificate to teach at an English academy

The auxiliar program was a positive experience for me, and I found that I was actually pretty good at teaching phrasal verbs and producing gap fills. My coordinator gave me free reign in the classroom, so at the end of my three years, I felt ready to make teaching my career, even going as far as applying for a Master’s in Secondary and Bilingual Education.

Remember all of those hand-written envelopes? I got a few bites, but the work papers was always the snag. When my pareja de hecho lawyer called to tell me I could get a Spanish social security number, I marched right over to the social security office and later that week, caught that damn overnight bus to pick up my residency card. I had a standing job offer and started work as Seño Miss Cat the following week.

Great methodology, fun songs and likeable characters.

When I left the private school – I was overworked and underpaid, and I didn’t have enough time for blogging and freelancing – I jumped into the English academy world. Having heard horror stories about payment and contract issues, I was wary but needed a way to work while completing a master’s program, so I figured the part-time schedule and academic year to academic year commitment was doable. I was offered the Director of Studies position midway through the year and stayed on until our move to Madrid.

When I get asked whether or not a TEFL or CELTA is necessary, I always give the same advice: if you want to work for a reputable academy, you should have a certificate. Not only does this make you more attractive to an employer, but it gives you footing if it’s your first time in front of a classroom. I agree that experience is the best teacher but Spain is the land of titulítis.

Vintage Travel: in Wisconsin at age 6

Is a CELTA or TEFL preferred to teach in Spain? While TEFL certificates are king in Asia and South America, many language schools in Spain will require a CELTA (Certificate of English Language Teaching to Adults). There’s good reason for this: the CELTA prepares you to teach the Cambridge Language Exams, which is a language level test that most academies offer.

I don’t really miss teaching as I thought I would, but mostly because I really like what I’m doing now. I do, however, miss my two-month vacation!

What do you do for a living? How did you get into university admissions?

After nine years in the classroom, a Facebook post changed my career rumbo. An American university in Spain was looking for an admissions counselor. I read the job description: people skills, basic computer skills, work permission in Spain. I could handle that. I wrote a fun cover letter, added a picture of myself on the school’s U.S. campus and sent off an email to HR and the Director of Admissions – less than a month later, I had an offer.

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A clue to the institution I work for – from one oddball mascot to the next!

Working for an American-style company (it’s an S.A., which is why I got paid maternity leave and am in the Spanish social security system) is a serious dream. My role includes representing the university in recruitment events in my geographic zone, reading applications, counseling students on visas, and overseeing recruitment and marketing for our graduate programs. It’s a fun challenge, and I’m still in education – and I am using my journalism chops at long last. Like many elements of my life in Spain, patience and perhaps some karma helped tremendously.

Want to get into international student admissions? You should be personable, able to work independently and keep up with trends in enrollment, higher education and whatever social media a teenager would be into. You should also be willing to answer very, very mundane questions. Working for a small, niche school has its challenges, so every enrolled student feels like a win – especially when you met that student at a college fair, set up a campus visit, helped them choose classes, and given them a hug at orientation.

As schools begin to look abroad (Fall 2019’s cohort was born the same year as 9-11, eh, meaning less kids to go around), many universities are amping up recruitment efforts abroad. Even in Spain, think beyond study abroad!

What is your favorite post on your blog?

Sometimes when I hit publish, I am excited to see how my readers react. Most times, I’m like, “cool, cross that off my todoist app” because of the amount of work that goes into a post. Editing photos, choosing the right words and kinda caring about SEO. I can mull for days over how to frame a post – often choosing to wait a year so that it’s timely.

Asking me to choose my favorite post depends on what I have a craving for reading.

doris shoes

From itchy feet to firmly planted in Spain

Perhaps one of the posts I find myself going back and reading the most is The Guiri Complex (Or, why I Can’t Have it All). Pounded out on a keyboard shortly after an American food store opened in the same storefront where I’d bought a flamenco dress, I was wrestling with more than just an overpriced box of Cheerios and whether or not I wanted it: it was a moment where I was torn between the life I had built in Sevilla, and the life I thought I could have in the U.S.

Curious: do you guys have any posts you particularly like? I’d love to hear them!

What is the Novio’s real name?

I recently met up for a beer (well, like a dozen) with Joy of @joyofmadrid. As soon as we’d sat down, she said, “I’m so glad we can skip over the basics because we already know one another.”

..and the other one. Believe it or not, Kike is Madrileño! But still Bético.

Ah, youth. This was eight years ago.

I’m not exactly a public figure, but I realize that people know who I am, what I do and where I like to have a caña. But my husband is an extremely private person and someone who is not into social media, internet cookies (or regular cookies, actually) or sharing his personal life. I can respect that, and for this reason he shall remain nameless.

And, no, I did not move here for the Novio. But he’s part of the reason I stayed.

Will you ever return to the U.S.?

Great question. While I don’t want to close the door to returning to live in the land of cooking with butter, I don’t see it happening. Where would the Novio get his hueso salao for puchero? How could I ever go back to not having health insurance? It’s not impossible, but I think it’s unlikely.

It's trite, but Chicago really is my kind of town.

Still my favorite place in the world.

Truthfully, moving to the US freaks me out – the staggering cost of living on meager savings, starting a job search from abroad, letting go of my Spanish lifestyle. The dream would be an American salary in Spain, but everyone makes sacrifices, right?

Cruzcampo is not one of those sacrifices.

If you didn’t live in Seville, where would you live? Where should I live?

te quiero sevilla

I always said that if I didn’t live in Seville, I’d live in Madrid. And now that the Spanish capital is “home,” I’d choose Seville again. It truly is la ciudad de mi arma, even with its faults (and that reminds me – I really love my break up post).

When I announced via Facebook that I’d be leaving Seville for Madrid, one commenter warned me of how soulless Madrid felt to her. My friend Lindsay, who has lived in both cities put it best (and I love her for it): Cat can find her people and her home anywhere.

Visit Lastres Asturias

But if I must choose – I really love Asturias and could see myself up north with a bouganvilla-covered house in a little fishing village near where the Novio summered. Send rebujito if this ever happens.

What are your tips for making friends abroad?

spanish american girls at the feria de sevilla

Currently in Sevilla, Denver, San Francisco, New York, Madrid, Sevilla and Jakarta, but forever in Calle Bombita

Saying that the friends I made in Spain are half of my Spanish world would be an understatement. There’s an affinity that we have, as Americans, that extends beyond our shared language and culture. My group and I have left home for Spain – sometimes for the adventure, sometimes for a novio. Most of them had studied abroad in Sevilla (everyone in the photo but me, in fact!) and most of us arrived in 2007.

Had I not met the women I call my Spain Dream Team, there’s a fairly large probability that I wouldn’t have stuck around. The Novio often traveled for work abroad for long stretches of time, so I wizened up and found a group of women about my age who planned on Spain long-term. Little by little, my small circle of sevillamericanas has grown (but not without a few hard bajas).

Remember how your parents told you to leave your dorm room door open during your first week of college? I did that, too, but figuratively. I never turned down an invitation, but in an age where social media was as creeperific, I spent a lot of time at home with a box of Magnum bars.

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I solemnly swear that we are up to no good.

When you’re looking to meet friends abroad, consider what you’re already into doing – there are meet ups for everything from hiking with kids to knitting. If there’s a local expat group, go to an outing or two, or at least tap into their resources. Of those pictured above, most of us met be being introduced by someone else – ask for introductions and don’t think it’s weird (we’re literally all in the same situation, or have been!). Don’t be afraid to invite people for a coffee – I used to drag my German roommate to a cuchitre bar on our street to practice Spanish, and a cook at one of the tapas bars near my house and I kept in touch (and he opened a new bar recently!).

Advice on when friends move? In the picture of us dressed in trajes de gitana – one of my favorites – only three of us are still in Spain, but we’ve seen one another at least once in the last two years. A part of me dies when one of my friends announces that she’s moving away from Spain and I have ZERO advice other than whatsapp.

Do you have any advice for someone moving to Spain?

After my first year in Spain, I returned to my summer job at an outlet mall in suburbia. Tasked with folding rows of chinos and steaming dress shirts at Banana Republic, I struck up a conversation with an American who had just returned from 17 years in Galicia. As I found her sizes and zipped up dresses, she reminded me, “Spain will change you. No vuelvas just yet.” Seventeen years seemed like an awful long time to be away from my family, my language and my culture, but I assured her I’d stay another year.

Dreamy.

I’ve never forgotten that milestone. By the time I’ve been here 17 years, I will have probably had another kid, maybe moved again and who knows what else. If someone had told me that I’d fall for a Spaniard when abroad, I would have believed them. Had someone told me I’d live my adult life here? I wouldn’t.

I’m often asked what I’d do differently. Truthfully, not too much. Maybe I would have tried harder on this blog, or tried harder to make more professional connections earlier. Maybe I would have saved more money. I probably would have paid a little more money for an apartment with air-con because, damn, Sevilla is hot. But in the grand scheme of things, I’m pleased with how things have gone – even those hours, sitting in the dark eating Magnum bars when I had no friends.

mercado de san miguel madrid

My advice? Remember that it’s not your home country, so nothing will be the same. Spanish customer service is pitiful, traffic is just as bad as in the US but with crappy radio. Life is life in Spain, but as they say: Spain is different. Not a good different of bad different, necessarily.

Just different – and fun, challenging, enriching and delicious. Here’s to 11 more!

Any other burning  questions for a long-term expat in Spain?

This post contains links to my residency blog, COMO Consulting Spain, including links to our online shop. Have a click on any of the links to learn more about how to move to and work in Spain. We were recently hacked, so every click makes a world of difference (and we put a humorous spin on Spanish red tape!).

Moving to Madrid: My first month in La Capi

As soon as I’d said the word, I clasped my hand over my mouth.

“Gracias.” 

Not an aspirated graciaaaaaaahhhhh, the final syllable lingering like an afterthought. A full pronounced grah-cee-us. With an S at the end.

The man handed my to-go cup of coffee and wished me a nice day, and I walked away, wide-eyed and concerned about how quickly I’d dropped my andalú. What was next, calling people maja or – worse – asking for a caña?

metro of Madrid

It’s already been a month since my abrupt adiós to Sevilla and moved to Madrid. I dropped into life in La Capital like I’d walked its streets forever, like I knew where all of the old man bars were to be found, like I could close my eyes when stepping off the Metro and still make a transfer correctly.

Our aterrizaje in Madrid can only be described as a soft one, one in which there was just a quick bounce, and we had landed.

It had been so long since I’d left a place that I call home and jumped into the unknown – I’ve lived in Sevilla longer simultaneously than any other place (and I moved four times before age 12, so I’m used to being the new kid in class). But, Madrid wasn’t really the unknown. The Novio has tons of family in Madrid, and a week after we arrived, all 10 of the primos were crowded around a table, sharing a meal of pasta and endless embutidos. And I already knew the transportation system, had battled extranjería and didn’t trip over every other word in Spanish.

Gran Via Madrid

My biggest battles, so far, have been adjusting to some language differences (who calls a loaf of bread a pistola?! The madrileños do!) and training my body to get up early and work in the mornings. Between getting settled and starting a new job, I’ve become a creature of the barrio, barely leaving my little bubble in Chamberí.

Hogar Dulce Hogar: Looking for a flat in Madrid

Our first order of business was finding a place to live. Madrid, in case you didn’t know, is large. Like, huge. And every district has smaller pockets of neighborhood, or locals will refer to them as by their nearest metro line. “Qué tal en Metro Cuzco?” I don’t know, how is it?

pamplona houses

So, we began narrowing down the neighborhoods and set a firm price since we’ve decided to not rent our place in Seville just yet. Chamberí was the top pick for areas, and our budget would stretch just far enough for two bedrooms and around 50 square meter of living quarters. After living for six years in a house with the Novio, I was used to space and modern appliances. Plus, nearly every place we saw on Idealista was for students only (with mommy and daddy’s aval bancario) or meant going through an agency and paying extra fees and tax. But I was optimistic, even in the dead of summer.

I became an Idealista junkie, browsing on my phone every time I picked up free wi-fi or waited to cross the street at a stoplight. I called up agents and people offering up places meeting our criteria from 9am until well after siesta time, using the time between tours to take note of the nearest market or churrería.

Every hole-in-the-wall student apartment we saw had something off about it. Too small, too dark, wall-to-wall with Cuéntame-Cómo-Pasó kitchen tiles and heavy wooden furniture. It had been nine years since I’d looked for a place to live in Spain, and nothing seemed “just right.” And this, from someone who wrote an ebook about moving to Spain.

The fifth place we saw is owned by a man named Jesús, sevillano by birth but very much madrileño from many years in the capital city. The place didn’t tick off all of the boxes, but it would work nicely (and no Cuéntame-era tiles to scrub!), particularly for walking to work and saving more than 50€ in a monthly transportation pass.

Best Old Man Bars in Madrid

The area of Chamberí we live in – Rios Rosas – is within 30 minutes walking of Tribunal, right up the street from Nuevos Ministerios and seven stops from Sol while being well-connected on three metro lines. Better yet? It’s quiet yet lively, and the proximity to Old Man Bars is killer.

The Novio has even toyed around the idea of writing a blog about the quality of the Old Man Bars around here.

Baby Steps and an Introduction to the Comunidad de Madrid’s Health System

Jesús handed us the keys and we killed a few cockroaches as we moved in. We settled in, walking around the neighborhood and stopping to eat our way through free munchies at all of the Old Man Bars we discovered. The Novio got us empadronados the following day, and then it was up to me to get us registered at our nearest ambulatorio.

I have seen the error of my ways, people: I can never, ever complain about the Sistema Andaluz de Salud. It was extremely easy to change my records from Andalucía to the Comunidad de Madrid and ask for a new health card, which arrived to my mailbox in three weeks. Everyone was pleasant and signed me up for a doctor and nurse they assured me were great resources for foreigners, and they weren’t wrong. Plus, you don’t have to go through your GP to get an appointment with specialists.

hospital care in Spain

I left smugly, thinking that my move to Madrid would be even easier and called to make an appointment with the lady doctor.

No, no le podemos atender en este centro.” I winced over the phone and asked why not. The woman on the other end curtly told me that they would call me whenever an appointment was available. I explained my situation and the urgency, but she wouldn’t budge. It seemed I was caught in some bureaucratic no-man’s-land, privy to a funcionario who may have been sensitive to my case, or maybe not.

When I did get an appointment, the doctor sent me for a routine blood test at a hospital near my new job. I agreed, thinking I could head in a little early so as not to miss my third day on the job. I waited for over TWO hours and, having not eaten, dug into my granola bar before even having the nurse applied pressure on the stab mark. The sugar put a spring in my step as I showed up for work an hour late, and I secretly missed all of the old ladies in my clinic back in Seville who would say, “Oh, I’m not sick, I’m just wasting time by waiting in line to see the doctor. Haven’t got anywhere to be.”

And when I asked my centro de salud for a follow-up for the results? I was told there are no specialists during the entire month of August, so I’ve been sent to the other side of the city three weeks later.

En fin, I’m learning as I go and being that person on Facebook groups.

A new job in a new sector

The biggest reason we moved to Madrid in the first place was for professional reasons. As much as I loved teaching English in Spain, I couldn’t see myself doing it forever because of the lack of mobility. I was director of studies, and I couldn’t aspire to much more.

As a child who ran before she walked, slowing down to a trot is never something I’ve been good at.

cat gaa sunshine and siestas

I’m nearly a month into a new position as an admissions counselor at an American university with a free-standing campus in Madrid. Myself a product of the system and an experienced teacher in Spain, I can easily point out the benefits of a liberal arts education, a student life office and a multicultural campus – just in my office, it’s normal to hear French and Arabic in addition to English and Spanish. And it’s making me nostalgic for my own co-ed years at the University of Iowa.

More than anything, I’m happy to feel the mental and pshyical exhaustion at the end of the day. The learning curve at my job has been the steepest, between acronyms and academic policies and learning the names of everyone on campus. But I’m feeling fulfilled and that the job is a great blend of skills for me – I’ve got one foot in the education field while the other in the PR and communications camp.

La Vida Madrileña

Pero cómo es que tienes planes? my cousin Irene asked when I turned down her invitation to go to the pool one afternoon when the A/C and reruns of Big Bang Theory were no longer appealing. Part of landing in Madrid was being able to reconnect with friends I haven’t seen in some time, have them show me their city instead of the other way around, and meet so many people who I’ve only ever been connected to through social media.

When I’m asked how Madrid is, I can only reply that, it’s muy bien with a raised eyebrow.

More than anything, it’s been the small adjustments. I was reminded by two neighbors that it’s a fineable offense to take out your garbage in the morning, and that the bins for plastic only come on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. That drinks and breakfast are more expensive, despite my salary staying the same as it was in Seville. That you can get coffee to go or head to the market at 8pm for groceries. I’ve eaten Belgian, Korean and killer Mexican food – and my excuse has always been that I don’t have an over.

I often feel like I’m in Chicago, just conducting my business in Spanish.

Madrid vs. Sevilla: the Ultimate Smackdown

Do I miss Seville? Te-la. Like, me duele en el alma. Walking over the Triana bridge to meet friends last weekend, the Novio and I took stock on the past month. Are we happy in Madrid? I’d say so. We’re together, like our neighborhood and are enjoying our jobs. Madrid has everything that Seville didn’t have for us.

But it’s not Seville, nor could it ever aspire to be Seville.

I have been wondering if people who live in Madrid could ever make as easy of a transition from the capital to Seville. It’s a city where you can’t sit down to most restaurants unless you’re in the hora franja, or 1-5 or 8-midnight. Where there’s only one pharmacy open on Sunday per neighborhood and not a single supermarket. It’s smaller, public transportation is almost mystifying and the whole pace of life is… different. And don’t expect free tapas with your caña.

seville guadalquivir river

But Seville is easy to fall in love with on first glance and romantic in a way that the Metro de Madrid and the long avenues could never be. We’re not so stuck in our neighborhoods and often crisscross the city for tapas or concert venues. We stop for a beer with friends because time moves at a different speed, and that beer is far cheaper, anyway.

On my last trip, I was exhausted by the time my train rolled into Santa Justa just past 11pm. The contrast of sweltering air after two hours on a refrigerated train car was strangely welcoming, and I perked up as I told the taxi driver to take me to a bar where friends were waiting. Esto, sí. This is home to me.

Ana asked me how things were going, grazing my knee every chance she got, just in case I wasn’t really there. When I told her that things were flowing and jiving, she just replied, “Tía, you could make a home anywhere.” It’s the truth.

We don’t know how long we’ll be here, but three years is the minimum. We could stay a lot longer – or maybe try going abroad for a few years. Pase lo que pase, I wanted to live in a big city once in my life, and Madrid feels manageable and willing to let me get to know it.

And we’ll always have Sevilla, thankfully.

Moving to Madrid

Have you ever moved to a new, bigger city? What were your steps to coping and coming out alive? I’d love to hear your take in the comments!

When Living Abroad Starts Feeling Like Living in America

I could have easily been in a neighborhood pub back home in Chicago. Armed with two guiri friends and a stomach that hadn’t eaten all day, I ordered a cheeseburger meal, piled on the ketchup and sat down on a couch, directly under drapes of spider webs. It was Halloween, and one my friends mentioned that – gasp! – another American friend of ours had had trick-or-treaters the night before in her pueblo.

De verdad? Since when does the oh-so-racio Seville feel just like America?

When

Slowly, Americana has been permeating into a city as Spanish as the tortilla. At first, I embraced the introduction of peanut butter onto supermarket shelves (and willingly forked over 7€ for it) and made special trips to Madrid for international cuisine. Eight years on, I’m feeling like I’m in a parallel universe sometimes as craft beer, Netflix and my favorite holiday are becoming mainstream, albeit jabbered on about in Spanish.

I’ve long been the guiri who drags her heels when it comes to embracing my culture while living in another. I famously chastised my friends for shopping at the American food store and have yet to set foot in Costco. I do not regularly catch baseball or American football games in bars, nor could I tell you the best place to watch one. Yes, I cook Thanksgiving for my in-laws with American products and dress up for Halloween, but those moments were always reserved for special parties with my compatriots. What I love about living in Spain really boils down to the fact that I love living in Spain.

Cue the hate comments: I didn’t really sign up for an American life when I moved to Seville. And in all fairness, I’m letting it happen.

Spanish potato omelette

The line between life abroad and life as I knew it before 22 is blurrier than ever. I conduct a large part of my day in English, have English-speaking friends and watch TV in English. I just picked up a Spanish book for the first time in three years. I consume news in English via my smartphone and had to recently ask the Novio the name of the new mayor in town. 

I knew I needed to make a change when the Novio suggested we get Netflix as a wedding present to ourselves. Wait, you mean I can watch a show on a big screen with no need to let the show buffer for ten minutes? And in my native language? The fun of the TDT system, which allowed shows to be aired in their original language instead of dubbing. Ni de coña – I will binge watch my American television shows on my laptop. Wouldn’t that 8€ a month be better spent on something else?

While Spain is definitely not America when it comes to lines at the bank, reliable service or a way around 902 toll numbers, I find my adult life becoming more on par with that which my friends are living in the US. I got more than a fair dosage of Americanism this year, spending more than four months of fifteen in the US. Going home is a treat – Target, Portillo’s and endless hours of snuggling with our family dog – but it’s lost a lot of its sheen now that Seville has Americanized itself, be it for tourists or for sevillanos

But at what price? Gone are the decades-old ultramarinos that once peddled canned goods – they’ve made way for trendy bars and clothing chains. While I admit that the Setas – a harsh contrast from the turn-of-the-century buildings that ring Plaza de la Encarnación – have grown on me, they caused a lot of backlash and an entire neighborhood to address itself. Do I really need a fancy coffee bar to do work at, or a gym with the latest in training classes?

Reflections of Study Abroad in Spain

As my world becomes more globalized, I find myself seeking the Spain I fell in love with when I studied abroad in Valladolid and the Seville that existed in 2007. We’re talking pre-Crisis, pre-smartphones and pre-instagram filters, and one where a Frapuccino every now and then helped me combat my homesickness. The Spain that was challenging, new and often frustrating. The Spain in which I relished long siestas, late nights and a voracious desire to learn new slang and new rincones of a new place.

But… how do I get back there? The Sevilla I discovered at age 22 is barely recognizable. Do I love it? Do I deal with it? I mostly stick around Triana, which stills feels as barrio and as authentic as it did when I took up residence on Calle Numancia in 2007.

This sort of rant seems to be a November thing, when rain has me cooped up outside instead of indulging in day drinking and mentally preparing myself to de-feather and de-gut a turkey. Maybe I’m in a slump. Maybe I’m comfortable. Maybe I’m lazy. Or maybe it’s just the fact that Spain doesn’t present the same day-to-day victories as it once did. 

One thing I know for certain is that I’m looking forward to jumping back into the Spanish manera de ser once the Novio arrives back home this week. I can’t wait to head to San Nicolás, sans computer, and search for castañas, to sleep without an alarm and to remember why and how Spain became mi cosa.

Do you ever feel like you’re no longer living abroad? Any pointers to get me back on track?

Ten Mistakes New Language Assistants Make (and how to avoid them)

My Spanish now-husband couldn’t help but laugh when I looked, puzzled, at our new coffee maker. I was jetlagged, yes, but also coming off six weeks of straight drip machine American coffee. The cafetera had me reconsidering a caffeine boost and swapping it for a siesta.

‘Venga ya,’ he said, exasperated, ‘every time you come back into town, you act like you’re a complete newbie to Spain!’ He twisted off the bottom of the pot, filled it with steaming water and ordered me to unpack.

Even after eight years of calling Spain home, I can so clearly remember the days when everything in Seville was new, terrifying and overwhelming. That time when the prospect of having a conversation with my landlord over the phone meant nervously jotting down exactly what I’d say to him before dialing.

You know my Spain story – graduate, freak out about getting a teaching job in Spain, find an internationally recognized TESOL certificate that would make me competitive in the ESL world and successfully complete it, hassles with my visa, taking a leap by moving to a foreign country where I knew not a soul.  How I settled into a profession I swore I never would, found a partner and fought bureaucracy. I’ve come a long way since locking myself in my bedroom watching Arrested Development to avoid Spanish conversation, though each year I get more and more emails from aspiring expats and TEFL teachers who ask themselves the same questions:

Is it all worth it? Is it possible at all? How can I do it?

Like anyone moving to a foreign country, there’s a load of apprehension, endless questions, and a creeping sense of self-doubt as your flight date looms nearer and nearer. I tried and learned the hard way how to do practically everything, from looking for a place to live to paying bills to finding a way to make extra income. Call it dumb luck or call it nagging anyone who would lend a friendly ear, but I somehow managed to survive on meager Spanish and a few nice civil servants (and tapas. Lots of tapas.).

As a settled expat, I am quick to warn people that Spain is not all sunshine and siestas, and that it’s easy to fall into the same traps that got me during that long first year. Year after year, I see language assistants do the same, so let these serve as a warning:

Packing too much

Back in 2007, I packed my suitcase to the brim and even toppled over when I stepped off the train in Granada. Lesson learned – really think about what you’re packing, the practicality of every item and whether or not you could save space by purchasing abroad. There are nearly more packing Don’ts than Do’s! If you’re smart about packing, you’ll have loads of room for trendy European fashions to wow your friends back home (and you won’t have to lug your bag up three flights of stairs).

Deciding on an apartment without seeing it

Typical house in Seville Spain

I was so nervous about the prospect of renting an apartment that I found one online, wired money and hoped for the best. Despite my gut telling me it was maybe not the smartest idea, I decided to grin and bear it. I ended staying in that same flat for three years.

In hindsight, choosing a flat before seeing it was a stupid move that could have turned out poorly. What if I didn’t like my roommates, or the neighborhood? How could I tell if it was noisy or not? Would my landlords be giant jerks? Save yourself the trouble and worry about finding a place to live when you get here.

Choosing not to stay in touch with loved ones

My first weeks in Spain were dark ones – I struggled to see what my friends and family were up to on Facebook or messenger, and I did a terrible job of staying in touch with them. I was bursting to share my experience, but worried no one would relate, or worse – they simply wouldn’t care. Get over it and Facetime like crazy, download whatsapp and count down the time difference. That’s what siesta hour was invented for, right?

Not bringing enough money

Money is a sticky issue, and having to deal with what my father calls “funny money” makes it more difficult. Remember – even coins can buy you quite a bit! Consider bringing more money than you might think, because things happen. Some regions won’t pay assistants until December, or you may not be able to find tutoring side jobs. Perhaps you will fall in love with an apartment that is more expensive than you bargained for. Having a cushion will ensure you begin enjoying yourself and your new situation right away, without having to turn down day trips or a night out with new friends. If you need tips, check out my Budgeting Ideas for Spain.

Not taking time to learn Spanish

Moving is scary. Moving abroad is scarier. Moving abroad without being able to hold your own in the local language is the scariest. Take some time to learn Spanish and practice conversation at whatever cost. Spanish will help you accomplish things as mundane as asking for produce at the market to important situations like making formal complaints. Ah, and that brings me to my next point…

Not interacting with locals

I studied abroad in Valladolid and met not one Spanish person during my six weeks there. While I have great memories with my classmates and adored my host family, I feel that I missed out on what young people did in Spain (and I had trouble keeping up when they did talk to me). In most parts of the country, Spaniards are extremely friendly and open to meeting strangers. Even if it’s the old man having coffee next to you – lose your self-doubt and strike up a conversation. I scored cheaper car insurance just by talking to a lonely man at my neighborhood watering hole.

Adhering to timetables and traditions from your home country

As if adapting to language and a new job weren’t enough, Spain’s weird timetables can throw anyone into a funk. I tried getting a sensible night’s sleep for about two weeks when I started to realize that being in bed before midnight was nearly impossible. If you can’t beat them, siesta with them, I guess.

And that’s not to say you can’t bring your traditions to Spain, either. Making Thanksgiving for your Spanish friends is always memorable, as is dressing up on Halloween and carving watermelons for lack of pumpkins. Embrace both cultures.

Not exercising (and eating too many tapas)

My first weeks in Spain were some of my loneliest, to be honest. I hadn’t connected with others and therefore had yet to made friends. I skipped the gym and ate frozen pizzas daily. My weight quickly bloomed ten pounds. The second I began accepting social invitations and making it a point to walk, I dropped everything and more. Amazing what endorphins and Vitamin D can do!

Not getting a carnet joven earlier

Even someone who works to save money flubs – the carnet joven is a discount card for European residents with discounts on travel, entrance fees and even services around Europe. I waited until I was 26 to get one, therefore disqualifying myself from the hefty discounts on trains. This continent loves young people, so get out there and save!

Working too much

Remember that you’re moving to Spain for something, whether it’s to learn the language, to travel or to invest more time in a hobby. Maybe Spain is a temporary thing, or maybe you’ll find it’s a step towards a long-term goal. No matter what your move means to you, don’t spend all of your waking hours working or commuting – you’ll miss out on all of the wonderful things to do, see and experience in Spain. When I list my favorite things about Spain, the way of life is high on my list!

So how do you avoid these mistakes?

It’s easy: research. I spent hours pouring over blogs, reference books and even travel guides to maximize my year and euros in Spain. While there were bumps in the road, and I had to put my foot in my mouth more times than I’d like to recall, I survived a year in Spain and came back for nine more (and counting!).

That’s why COMO Consulting has brought out an enhanced edition of it successful eBook to help those of you who are moving to Spain for the first time. In our ten chapter, 135-page book, you’ll find all of the necessary information to get you settled into Spain as seamlessly as possible. In it, we cover all of the documents you’ll need to get a NIE, how to open a bank account, how to seek out the perfect apartment, setting up your internet and selecting a mobile phone and much (much!) more.

Each chapter details all of the pertinent vocabulary you’ll need and we share our own stories of where we went wrong (so hopefully you won’t!). Being an expat means double the challenge but twice the reward, so we’re thrilled to share this book that Hayley and I would have loved to have nine years ago – we might have saved ourselves a lot of embarrassing mishaps! The book is easy to read and downloadable in PDF form, so you can take it on an e-reader, computer or tablet, and there’s the right amount of punch to keep you laughing about the crazy that is Spain.

download-now-2015

Downloading Moving to Spain is easy – the button above is linked to COMO’s online shop. Click, purchase thru PayPal, and you’re set! You will receive email notification of a successful purchase and a link to download the eBook. You can also click here.

Have you ever moved abroad before? What’s your biggest piece of advice?

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